


Homefall

by HeapBigPhotographer



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien Invasion, Alien Technology, Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeapBigPhotographer/pseuds/HeapBigPhotographer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four kids are now four young adults in unique positions to fend off an extraterrestrial threat. Twelve young trolls are now veterans attempting a historic invasion. The war for Earth has begun, and behind the struggle between two civilizations lies a deeper secret...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fly me past the moon

**Author's Note:**

> Posting simultaneously here and on my tumblr, http://alternia-attacks.tumblr.com/, where I will post background and such. Still getting a hang for editing in both mediums, so please excuse any html slip ups, I'll be doing my best to correct them.
> 
> Commentary and discussion are more than welcome, especially of a critical bent.
> 
> A special thanks to dundee998, for giving me a blow-by-blow account of my grammatical screw ups.

## H-HOUR MINUS 26 HOURS,SOUTH PACIFIC, JOHN F. KENNEDY CARRIER GROUP.

She had not signed up for astronomy, but it was certainly a welcome change from making sure a certain republic of people heard the sound of America’s saber a-rattlin’. Of course, she hadn’t really wanted to sign up in the first place, but the twofold effect joining ROTC had had on her mother was irresistible. Avoid the courses that mother would have forced on her if she had footed the bill for college, while at the same time displaying utter disdain for the lifestyle she had become accustomed to? Why yes, that did sound good.

She hadn’t planned on going into flight school, but in a moment of weakness she had watched that damnable Iron Eagle and its sequels at a friend’s insistence. He hadn’t recommended Top Gun, his enjoyment of movies seemed inversely proportional to their quality, but it had been the next logical step. As had been flight school after that. Flying Super Hornets was the closest to replicating that experience she had somehow begun to crave. After an incident had come dangerously close to causing a literal fallout between her and her RIO, transferring to an aircraft with fewer crewman had made sense.

So now here she was, gazing up at the stars through the canopy of her F-35C, the helmet mounted display dimmed to its lowest operational setting, while some NASA bird caught particles and waves that despite their intangibility might soon have very concrete repercussions for the whole world.

### [RADLOG 1]

  


>   
> 
> 
> Blackbox:  
> Thorn One [TO] hailed Thorn Two [TT] 1h.3min.4sec after last scheduled contact and 10min.25sec before next scheduled contact. Automatic Recording activated.  
> TO: You're gaining altitude, Thorn Two.  
> TT: Yes, thank you sir, I was not aware of that. I will correct my course immediately.  
> TO: And to think only weeks ago I would have worried that was insubordination, now I know it's the typical passive aggresive thing you do. I talked to some of your instructors, you know. Some of them still aren't sure why they let you get your comission.  
> TT: Might it have been my winning smile, sir?  
> TO: The one you only seem to flash when you're messaging that cop? I doubt it.  
> TT: Pardon me for taking more pleasure from some aspects of my private life than the usual OC antics of Wozniak shooting people with marshmallows when they beat him at cards.  
> TO: Well, your heading's correct now, so I'm done complaining.  
> TT: I may not be finished complaining.  
> TO: You're a second lieutenant. You don't get to complain to anybody who isn't a rating.  
> TT: Why are we here, One?  
> TO: Luna, the openness of that question rivals McDonalds.  
> TT: Why are we staring at the sky, Windhover?  
> TO: You don't want this late night assignment?  
> TT: I want to know why I'm on it.  
> TO: You've been in the Navy how many years? And you're still asking questions? Huh, let me consult my crystal ball...  
> TT: Maybe I should introduce you to mother, consulting orbs for arcane knowledge is something she would have wanted me to find in a spouse.  
> TO: Why'd you have to be my wingmate? Joking about relations between flight officers hasn't been funny since they started recording everything.  
> TT: I suppose that dead musicians when misquoted may offer us wisdom you have not yet ascertained from your scrying device.  
> TO: Oh?  
> TT: Yes, it would seem that every thorn has it's Rose.  
> TO: You can expect a courtmartial for that, LaLonde.  
> TT: I anticipate it with bated breath, sir.  
> [Silence until next scheduled exchange. Automatic cutoff.]  
> 

Rose sighed as she glanced up at the stars one more time. They were not the stars she saw gazing at the night at home. These belonged to the southern hemisphere. Some were familiar, and Mars winked with its red light, a reminder of war and bloodshed, but far more comfortable a constant than the green dot pulsing overhead. Or the dark spots the telescopes showed each flash left behind.

None of this was classified as far as she knew, mainly since so far nobody had found anything to classify, but still…

She might just pester some old chums after she got some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In senior year Rose roomed with this Pre-med chick named Ludmilla from some slavic country.


	2. The Boy in Blue

## H-HOUR MINUS 22 HOURS, NYPD FIRING RANGE, UPPER EAST SIDE

Louis Fernandez had been a range master for some time. He actually retired from the NYPD seven years ago, but friends in middling places had gotten him a job as a “consultant”. He only wore his uniform (considerably tighter since he was on the force proper) for parades now, but as far as most people were concerned, he was still a cop. And the sad sack before him, despite all the evidence to the contrary, was a cop too.

He cleared his throat and tried to get his attention. “Egbert. You seriously that upset about it? I mean it’s an expensive piece but… it’s just a shotgun.”

The younger man wiped his face with the back of his hand, the range glasses bumping his own up.

“The one Jackhammer in existence and it breaks in my hands. I mean, I know I’m being overly emotional, but… that gun was special to me.”

Fernandez sighed and checked the range. Nearly empty. That probationary officer that was supposed to help him could take care of things. He gave the man a shake to get his attention and told the officer to close shop; he was knocking off early tonight.

“Come on Egbert. Let’s talk about it over coffee. I know a place over on Park that’s worth the walk. They’ve got these cakes that are to-“

“No.”

“What?”

“No cakes, that is…I’d like to get some coffee though.”

“Okay, then just around the corner.” Fernandez grabbed his coat and walked out into the night air with the young officer. They chatted about the latest contract negotiations on the way over to a diner. John took his coffee with two sugars, Louis with three and a couple of creams (Helen wasn’t around, so it wouldn’t matter).

Fernandez wiped his mustache of coffee and sized up the younger man. His uniform fit well, but he was a bit on the pale side, contrasting with the dark blue. He wore older square glasses, instead of the tortoise shells that had inexplicably become popular again a year or two back. They weren’t an augmented reality pair either, no lights on them. Blue eyes looked at him through thick lenses that were just shy of disqualifying him for service. They were still a little watery, but there was some mirth in there too.

“Is the gun really the only thing on your mind? I mean it was expensive, but usually there’s more to a man in the ESU crying,” Fernandez watched the officer as he took a long pull from the paper cup.

“Well, nothing new. My dad sent me a letter the other day, which was a good thing. It’s nice to hear from him,” Egbert smiled shyly in a way that reminded Fernandez of his nerdy friends in High School when he managed to tease out the identity of their crushes.

“It’s just…well, part of it is I always just had this weird liking for hammers. And with the Pancor gone, I’m gonna have to start using the AA-14 for tactical assignments. Which is fine, but I sort of liked being the Hammer guy.” Egbert gazed into his cup.

“Say, where’s your dad, he’s in your hometown? Could be homesickness…” Fernandez didn’t hold out much hope for this line of thought.

But the officer took it up. “Could be, home’s always been important to me. Something just feels…off at my apartment. When I look at the walls, they seem to be missing something, and it’s not all the movie posters I’ve got. I feel like such a fool when I worry about it,”

It began to dawn on Fernandez that setting some young guys on the right track would require a bit more work than he really wanted to do. Anything but sorting out self-esteem issues, anything. “So uh, where’s home?”

“Oh, out in the s’burbs. I started off in the Toluca County Sherriff’s Department before transferring to the NYPD,”

“Why’d you transfer?”

“It was booooooring,” he said with an eye roll. “I solved this one missing persons case and they wanted to send me straight to the top of the ladder, but that’s only because it was the first in a long time to get solved. People get lost for more than a week out there, they _stay_ lost, for some reason. So I worked hard and gave it my all and found myself very briefly a Detective-Inspector,”

“Briefly?”

“Yeah, I think you can always find the good in a person, but dealing with drug dealers to catch murderers showed me that sometimes you have to look really extra hard.”

“Than why transfer to the Emergency Services Unit? Especially with all the tactical deployments going on, SWAT stuff like that has you killing people,”

“I know, but in ESU, it’s usually very clear who’s mostly good and who’s mostly bad. And those other times, saving construction workers, helping people in crashes, they feel good all the time,” he glanced down at his watch. “Speaking of time, I’ve got a pet salamander to feed…”

“Oh, right,” Fernandez was relived. Morality was not an issue he wanted to discuss even at the best of times. “Say, my friends call me Lou.” He offered his hand.

Egbert took it with a smile. “John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's hometown may or may not have a lot of fog.


	3. License to Kill (Ironically)

## H-HOUR MINUS 20 HOURS, MOGADISHU, SOMALIA.

“Right mate, this some sort of joke? A broken blade? As your calling card? What message is that supposed to send? Are you saying you’ve killed an SAS man? Or that you used to be one?”

The man in the chair lifted his head and smiled at where the voice was coming from. He didn’t strain against the ropes or make any sudden moves, just an easy turn of the head and the spread of an infuriatingly smug smirk.

“Smarmy little prick, isn’t he?”

The head whipped around to the other end of the room and an eyebrow rose inquiringly.

“Odd fashion sense too. This red beret? In big American cities some folks wear those and bug the cops about shit they see. The ‘guardian angels’ or some such they call themselves.”

The man cleared his throat. “That,” he said and spat out a collection of mucous and blood, “was meant to be ironic.”

The room went silent; the Special Air Service operatives were still as the hot dusty air, fingers tensed on triggers. The owner of the first voice peered at the captive. He stepped close and held the jagged edge of the broken K-bar to the man’s throat and applied more pressure with each word hissed menacingly.

“How…far…to…the…safe house?”

“About twelve miles, as the crow flies.” Utter aplomb, despite the pressure of the blade.

“Mr. Bourne, I presume,”

“No, but I know you’re not really Captain Price either. He died in the sixth game.”

Captain Kevin Oliver leaned over and pulled the blindfold off the captive. “You nearly got yourself bloody killed! You’re not James Bond you fucking idiot, just give the damned countersign and you’d have avoided about thirteen bruises and fourteen cuts,” Oliver used the knife to slice through the knots at the man’s back, muttering to himself, “Combat spooks, they’re all the same. Oh, and where my manners? I’m Captain Oliver if you must know, the fellow with the good right hook is Trooper Pilchard and the one who’s handy with knots is Corporal Wren.”

“Strider, I don’t have a rank and I don’t think we’re on a first name basis yet,” the man stood with closed eyes as he rubbed his wrists. “Hand me those sunglasses, would you Wren? Thank you, wait…where’s the fourth member of your team?”

“Rooftop across the street, waiting for the final sign from you or the first from me.”

“Now who’s worried about James Bond shit, I’m not gonna take down three men while I’m tied to a chair, let alone badass dudes such as yourselves,” a smug smile broke out. “Now outsmarting you, I wouldn’t have written off all the way, but you covered that anyway,”

“If you’re done wanking, could we please get on our way?” one of the other men, Strider wasn’t sure if it was Pilchard or Wren, rejoined.

“Do we have an exfil point or are you guys gonna take out your umbrellas and fly us the fuck out of here with matronly magic?”

Oliver walked over to the window and made a cut sign across his throat. He dug through one of packs and came out with an MP5K. He tossed it to Strider and produced four magazines. “That answer your question?”

Strider adjusted the stock and got a feel for the sights, aiming down the barrel at the chair. Taking the mags he slid three into his pockets and the other into the H&K. “What an antique,” he said turning it over in his hands.

“I brought it in case we needed to bribe somebody who wanted protection, which in Mogadishu, is just about everybody.”

There was a knock at the door and one of the soldiers let a man carrying a scoped rifle in. He shouldered it and offered his hand. “Trooper Goldfarb, at your service.”

“No, you’re not the designated marksman, you’re way too nice. The SDM is supposed to be a stone code killer with a chip on his shoulder because he’s not a full sniper. I refuse to accept this lack of media stereotypes. Do the entrance again.”

The trooper smiled sheepishly and looked to Oliver. The older man squeezed the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “You’ll have to excuse Mr. Strider, he’s sort of an asshole.”

Strider put his hand to his heart in feigned injury. “You wound me sir, an Englishman resulting to such vulgar displays to insult his poor, uncouth, intellectually challenged American cousin.”

“That bloody does it,” Oliver swung hard with his rifle doubling Strider over with a strike to the stomach, the submachine gun clattered to the floor. “Listen up, I don’t know what they told you in training down on the spook farm but this isn’t a fucking joke. Me and my men are putting our necks on the line for your worthless hide. I don’t know nor do I care why, but I sure as hell know how that goal is going to be accomplished. With a minimum of shit from you, you’re the VIP, which means we get you out alive. I have a certain degree of latitude in defining alive. Don’t make me use it. This is real. Understood?”

Strider pulled himself up to his normal height. “Shit’s realer than Kraft Mayo, understood…Sir,” he smiled despite his labored breathing. “I like you guys. Call me Dave. Dave Strider.”

“Oh, so now we’re on first names?” Pilchard, Dave could tell by the blood stains on his gloves, said handing him the broken K-bar and the rest of Dave’s gear. “Surely you can’t be serious.”

“I’m serious like that reference is dumb. You’re talking to the wrong man there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dave would likely have gotten along famously with Yossarian. Atvar wouldn't have liked him much.


	4. A Precious Stone

## H-HOUR MINUS 18 HOURS, ISLA DE LA RANA, SOUTH PACIFIC, INTERNATIONAL WATERS.

 

A green star winked amongst its many white neighbors, its light falling onto a verdant speck on a blue globe. Two smaller circles of green received some of those tinted waves and narrowed with determination.

The girl, and she was certainly a girl, despite being of age for nearly every conceivable activity, stared daggers at a sky she felt had betrayed her. She felt betrayed by a lot of things and people at this stage in her life. The bulk of the Skaia Net board of directors was chief among them, then their damned technician and what he installed, her friend and her family. Of course she couldn’t blame all of them for their betrayals, dying had been beyond the control of her Grandfather and her friend was gone in most senses well before he was dead. Of course they were now things she could feel betrayed by, any time she visited the foyer. Family tradition.

She waved her hands in the air and looked at the data she had prepared. The spiked, lumpy shapes coming through the “gate” were tough to find good photos of. Too far away for most amateur telescopes to get good shot, they were also too far south for most of the world’s scientific telescopes to see with detail. The Hubble Space Telescope had gotten a few good ones but those were still being pored over at the NASA Jet Propulsion Lab, all 8 of the researchers who still clung to their jobs working as fast as they could, but not fast enough.

According to the one director she was still on good relations with, a few spy satellites, the only kind governments seemed interested in launching anymore, had turned cursory glances towards the disturbances. They counted the shapes of what some suspected were vessels in the stars before returning to their tally of ships on the sea. Ironically, she reflected, those satellites had done their job very well, determining the size and shape of a likely enemy force.

Her own observatory had provided her with these images, mainly through exotic technology operating on somewhat arcane principles. She missed the days when her daily life had been filled with such devices, strange and wonderful things her grandfather had fashioned, their functions having ceased several years ago. Not having to use the stairs had been particularly nice.

Somewhat calmed by the memory of working transportalizers she tapped away at the virtual keyboard and highlighted a collection of spots along what could only be a ship.

“these are reflective to just about any type of radiation!!!! i think a special type of laser can go through?? but it is a very specific wavelength one i don’t think anybody on earth can make, way too many clumped together just for shooting asteroids! it’s a weapon for hurting people!!! some other places work for radar and the types of radio frequencies we use. also there are lots of gamma ray resistant metals behind some of the spikes…I think its for a weapon too D: and you need at least atom bombs to make gamma ray lasers!!!!!!!!”

She frowned at the text shimmering in the air. Not very official, but that had never been her strong suit. Besides, somebody would rewrite it for the officials under Cheyenne Mountain; they did that for reports made by people in ivory towers far less literal than hers.

She finished the report, carefree as to the lack of seriousness the writing seemed to convey. In her book more exclamation points meant more urgency.

A load bar flew past as the file uploaded the file to a secure server. With her work done, all she could do for now, she still had the rest of the evening to fill. Her rifles could use some attention. An icon blinking in the air over her computer broke her train of thought. Rose? She hadn’t talked to her in ages!

Despite the late hour she happily opened the aging chat client. Time to talk to an old friend.

> USN E-CENSORING SYSTEM v.2.1.6  
> CHAT RECORDED: 1025/1873  
> NO SECURITY BREECHES DETECTED, NO CLEARANCE NEEDED;  
> AUTO-CENSOR APPLIED TO OPERATION SENSITIVE INFORMATION;  
> "PESTERCHUM" CLIENT COMPLIED;  
> \--tempestTamed [TT] began pestering gardenGnostic [GG] at [CENSORED]--  
> TT: Hello Jade, are you there?  
> GG: i'm here!!! :D  
> GG: is that you rose??? i don't recognize the handle!!!!  
> TT: Oh, yes. I had to get a new one, fleet regulations.  
> GG: how do i know it's really you???? you could be an imposter!! :O  
> TT: If that were the case, I would be rather convincing one, wouldn't I?  
> TT: I have the same text color, the same syntax, the same typing mannerisms,I knew who you were and addressed you by name. Very extensive lengths to impersonate a person to converse with one of the last users of this chat client.  
> GG: yay!!!! :) it is you! but why this chumhandle?  
> TT: You remember my experiences in flight school involving that storm?  
> GG: yeah i was super scared when i heard about it!!! D;  
> TT: Do you also recall the way I had hoped it would result in a less embracing callsign? Or as Dave termed it, "stick jiggling moniker"?  
> GG: i sure do! what happened???  
> TT: It didn't stick, and I remained referred to as a minor character from a book about wizards of all things.  
> GG: that's too bad!!!  
> TT: Indeed. But lamenting my squad-mate's choice of stick jiggling moniker is not why I decided to pester you.  
> GG: oh did something happen???? do you need somebody to talk to??  
> TT: No, I happened to be in the neighborhood.  
> GG: what do you mean???  
> TT: The JFK is on patrol in the South Pacific. I re-examined the flightpath I just flew and realized it took me very close to a certain private island.  
> GG: oh i wish i had been watching the stars then!! i would have liked to see you!!! or your plane or whatever x)  
> TT: Don't worry, from what I understand we are going to be in the area for a while. NASA had us escort one of their planes around to take some pictures of The Anomaly. They're not very happy with the results.  
> TT: Did you get that? I'm not always sure when the Auto-censor feels the need to eviscerate my conversations. Let me try to tell you the name of my squadron leader, it's Henry [CENSORED].  
> GG: censored is a funny last name!!! ha ha!!  
> GG: but i already knew that those NASA things wouldn't work. their best [CENSORED] still aren't here!! [CENSORED]  
> TT: Oddly enough it would seem their best censors, in contrary to what I can only assume are meant to be sensors are in fact, here.  
> GG: what???  
> TT: Most of that last sentence was blacked out.  
> TT: From your end.  
> GG: oh yeah!!! i am working on some very important stuff!!! they had that stupid idiot put software on my computer to keep me from telling people about it.  
> TT: "They"?  
> GG: the government and my grandpa's company. it's super secret though!!!! shhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!! ;)  
> TT: Has John been making you watch conspiracy movies again? Maybe some with that horrible actor from our youth, LaBeouf?  
> GG: no!!!!!!!  
> GG: well, yes, but i'm super serious about this!!!!!!  
> TT: I believe you. But I'm afraid we must talk again later. It seems the Admiral will address us soon on a grave matter.  
> GG: bye rose!!!! and rose????  
> TT: Yes?  
> GG: promise me you will be super careful no matter what!!!!!!!! i mean it!!!! |:[  
> TT: That serious face has me utterly convinced. I will take all precautions to ensure my safety, short of ending my career as a pilot prematurely.  
> \-- tempestTamed [TT] ceased pestering gardenGnostic [GG] at [CENSORED] --  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you squint real hard, I guess there might be a Minority Report reference in there. REAL hard.


	5. Sea the Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, this is still sort of rough. I will be editing it in the near future, but I have work tomorrow, so I figured I'd get what I have out.
> 
> Secondly, don't worry too much about OC's, these aren't fan trolls, they're viewpoint characters. If you've read Turtledove, you'll know what I'm talking about. If not, take solace in their existence for narrative expedience instead of flushing out the cast unduly. This is a global war, and to get the gist of the scale across I need more than 16 odd folks. And if some of them are disposable? All the better.
> 
> And please, tell me what you think in regards just about any subject with even tangential pertinence.

## H-HOUR MINUS 16 HOURS, ULTRA-VIOLET DECK OF THE IMPERIAL FLAGSHIP NEW GLORY

Iendar Bolish counted herself lucky as she pulled on the breathing mask before entering the Imperial Chambers. The flagships were designed to keep an environment nearly indistinguishable from the seafloor constant throughout the Imperial Suite. However, Empress Piexes had granted some unheard of concessions. While the whole deck was submerged, only Her Imperious Condescension’s bedchambers were kept at seafloor pressure, the rest of the Suite only felt like an additional Alternian atmosphere was pressing down on Iendar and the other slaves.

There was a valid military reason, and only military reasons were valid in fleet affairs, for this break from custom. The Throne Room was only partially submerged, greatly increasing the effectiveness of the land dwelling officers who advised Her Highness and transmitted Her orders on the spot. Before New Glory had been made flagship in this particular fleet those blue blooded officers, much like the slaves, had needed to wear caraparmor rated to work in the harsh vacuum of space. That those above her might like to keep slaves from having access to the most powerful standard issue item in the Alternian arsenal did not occur to her.

She only knew that the Second Empress was weak, and that she indulged lowbloods like herself to degrees that caused the more caste conscious to mutter as darkly and loudly as they could when a member of the (vastly truncated by Imperial order) inquisiliquidators wasn’t around. But having a weak superior was always a good thing. Iendar didn’t fancy a coup or anything of the like, a wavelength or two above brown she was lucky she got a cart to carry food around for a living, yet there were still ways to benefit.

She pondered the last time she had drawn a weapon from her strife deck. She had equipped her ¼ staff only once this sweep in anger, when a commando team of those shifty looking udderbeast-esque creatures had attempted to take out a group of officers having a party to celebrate the conquest of yet another continent. Her telecomunistrangler boss had sold her to fleet operations shortly after that, likely to prevent their budding enmity from developing into a scandalous ochre/turquois relationship. She’d been somewhat flattered, the transfer meant she wouldn’t need to fight, something her role in the Signals Corps made likely but failed to prepare her for. Maybe there had been a hint of pity in there as well?

After she checked the assignment board she put such thoughts from her mind. She would be on call in the throne room tonight. Her sole weapon would be quick service and her only defense deference. Making sure the mask was properly adjusted, she stepped into the waterlock and let it cycle her through to the other side quickly and efficiently. She took a tray from the slave station and half swam, half walked down the flooded corridor to the entrance of Her Majesty’s Throne Room.

She was challenged by two guards in full combat caraparmor, their own glyphs in white behind the Empress’s trident, magnetic boots held them to the floor, but she had no doubt they could easily outswim many a seadwelling lusus. Royal Guards were of the purest blood, no exceptions. The yellow of their eyes was visible as a dull glow through their helmets, they made a connection directly to the wearer’s eyes through thin strands of nervous material. A battle hardened caraparmor user would often complain of “hairy eyes” as their own body tried to grow similar attachments in response.

Without a word one of them somehow signaled the door to open and allow her access. She was not deemed a threat. But she was not prepared for the scene that met her.

It was a madhouse. Everywhere, trolls shouting and yelling, some of the Old Language being spoken by seadwellers and those speaking modern Alternian did so with pronounced accents. Not all that unusual, but the fact that mere land dwelling officers were shouting back in clearer modern Alternian was unsettling. In the eye of the storm sat the Empress.

Her throne was just a chair, not an elaborate tableau of precious materials and what remained of conquered species as was custom. No, it was just a chair. Cushiony, but not distracting, Iendar assumed it was for combat operations.

She made her way around the flailing, screaming, posturing officers and ducked a few swimming across the surface, cloth billowing and ceremonial armor making dull clinks through the water. Her spot was kneeling beside the Throne with the tray clasped in front of her.

She assumed the position, her ceremonial chains draped around her neck, manacles attached to horns and hands. In theory she was quite alluring, but the flimsy slave garments were hidden beneath a jumpsuit as per Admiralty orders. A perigee ago a male slave had been the catalyst for a fight that had cost a lilac propulsion expert both his arms. There were no imperial drones with the fleet, but the season for buffing the filial pails had come and horns were locked over potential mates even by those with filled quadrants. The Marquis, with perhaps a hint of irony, had suggested that provocative wear be avoided until the pheromones settled.

Iendar wondered why Piexes allowed the tumult to continue. To figure out who was the smartest? To see who could argue the best? Or was it that she couldn’t keep a bunch of fools in line? She regarded the empress out of the corner of her eye.

The Empress fingered her trident and took in the scene with a bored gaze. She took a deep gulp of water and stood up. She banged her trident once, twice. Silence fell. Fists froze mid swing and the officers on the surface swam down, the seadwellers floating at eye level and the landwellers stopped fighting the pull of the “Fucking magnet boots” as one curmudgeonly calvareaper master missing half his right horn muttered.

“I am aware of the mistakes that have been made; that the declaration has been sent ahead of time; that our intentions have been made clear; that our prey will have some time to prepare. I am aware of all these things. I command you: tell me what is being done?”

Iendar was dumbstruck. She only rarely had this posting. And in the time she had Piexis had issued few orders and those in a voice that applied more to reason. This was different. She practically felt the urge to leap up and tell her Empress exactly what happened, and she hadn’t the slightest clue what had happened.

An ornately dressed male stepped away from the edges of the chamber. “Fef, the incompetent fools who glubbed up are already paying for this.” His accent was much more prominent than the Empress’. He had somehow colored a shock of his hair to match his glyph, an ostentatious display for any troll. He exuded an almost tangible feel of smugness and self-assurance; his sneer seemed to beg one in return.

“Orphaner, I would have you use at the least the long form of my name from you at this time.”

“Oh, uh sorry. Feferi. But yes, they’re being punished. Do you have any requests for how their torture should go? Or perhaps a preference for an execution method I can pass along to the legislacerators?”

“Prosecution is the least of our worries. In fact, while the present crisis happens I find the distraction of punishing those who might have been able to correct their mistakes to be a poor decision. Who ordered their punishment?”

“I did, Your Highness, I was think’n that…”

“Enough, blame is not our concern right now, but rather damage control,” she rose with an elegant yet measured movement and pulled the trident behind her back with a casual movement. “If I am to understand what happened correctly, our terms were sent prematurely?”

A younger officer behind Iendar called out with her voice clotted by a breathing mask, “Yes, Your Imperious Condescension, but only the written copy. I doubt they will be able to translate Alternian in just a few hours’ time, and we will send the verbal copy to arrive as scheduled.”

“Very well. Slave, fetch the troll who just spoke a refreshment of her choosing from the royal stock. I want the leader of the reconnaissance elements to confer with me on a first strike that will follow the arrival of the first transmission. Something big to get their attention,”

Iendar rose and took the order of the young analysisector as quickly as possible. Military matters far above her rank were about to be discussed, slaves were officially allowed to be present, but if a leak was suspected it was a safe bet the inquisiliquidators would start at the bottom and work their way to the top.

She left the room with great haste, learning on her way out that the largest examples of engineering and military might would be the primary targets of the handful of reconnaissance ships close to the planet.

She tried, and almost succeeded, to clear the thought from her mind as she coaxed a vintage whiskey into an ampoule with a mask attachment. She hoped almost would be good enough, because where one major mistake occurred, there would be others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, those udderbeasts, let me tell yo- hey! Why am I losing credits?


	6. Walls Painted in Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where it gets grimdark, folks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Scout Ship 12 _is above the bridge found here: http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Tobin+Memorial+Bridge,+Boston,+MA &oe=utf-8&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a&um=1&gl=us&resnum=1&hl=en&ie=UTF-8&hq=&hnear=0x89e370f830123403:0x981bda1fa66b9a4c,Tobin+Memorial+Bridge,+Boston,+MA+02129&gl=us&ei=p4VpTprNO8nOgAeEtoH6BQ&sa=X&oi=geocode_result&ct=image&resnum=1&ved=0CBoQ8gEwAA .__
> 
> The MobilSolutions is a ways to the south, where the rivers meet.

##  H-HOUR MINUS 5 HOURS, SCOUT SHIP 12, SEMI-STATIONARY ORBIT OVER NORTHERN CANADA

 

Few xenopological* records exist from other societies studying trollkind. Even fewer of that number are in languages still understood by living beings. Broadly though, they all agree that, technically speaking, trolls are social creatures. Creatures not particularly adept at using their social skills to be sure, but they did not build an empire spanning a galaxy without rudimentary conversational skills.

One member of Scout Ship 12’s crew seemed to lack even basic social skills even by Alternian standards. Ship Master Tandis Relnoh was convinced this was not a problem; if it had been a problem his betters would have culled the offender. Still, even things that aren’t problems often prove to be inconveniences. Problems require thought; they need to be sleuthed out if there isn’t an immediate solution. Inconveniences, on the other hand were like scuttlers foolish enough to stop in front of a troll: crushed ruthlessly and reflexively.

He slid the hatch to the inconvenience’s respite cell aside and started screaming before the occupant could get to attention. “You can’t roleplay your attendance at a staff meeting!”

“But why?” she whined indignantly, “It’s purrrrfectly acceptable for Jineps to type messages out. Why do we need to be there at all? A memo in Trollian would work at least as well.”

“Jineps is still missing most of his speakstrings and can’t talk. You, on the other hand, don’t need any prosthetics to communicate while conserving your non-existent psychic powers. You will attend the meeting and you will speak at the appropriate times. That is an order, Exstabolator Nepeta Leijon, is it understood?”

She cast her gaze down, as she usually did when speaking and mumbled something.

Relnoh cleared his throat. The cue of seemed lost on her. He examined the young officer responsible for sifting through all the data the ship’s sensors gathered and gaining pertinent facts to the mission. When she had first been assigned to 12 he had felt some black stirrings, her cutesy obsession with furry creatures and her almost crippling shyness had bothered him deeply in all the right ways. But her inability to pick up on social cues and the staggering amount of red romance fiction he had seen written and logged on her computer terminal had turned him away. Never mind she was the third highest under-officer on the ship in terms of blood, he couldn’t fill a quadrant with her. Those cute horns aside…

He snapped himself out of contemplation and made his meaning explicit. “Repeat that, Extabolator Nepeta Leijon,”

She started to speak and then caught herself and managed to meet his eyes, “I understand, furless leader.”

Contrived pun aside, it would have to do. He grabbed his left horn with his left hand and watched her mirror the gesture on her right side. Indicating one’s dominant side was a sign of respect in the Alternian military almost synonymous with the salutes used by human forces. The crew had taken to doing it more often than necessary after translating an Earth broadcast from the little transmission station almost directly below them.

“I will see you shortly.”

* * *

“You’s saying we’s responsible for starting the attack? What’s wrong with them’s? Do we’s look like the threshcutioners?”

Relnoh glared at Yovlee Chanis, the male charged with weapons related duties, and the surliest 'auspistice he had ever met. Still, he was grateful for him keeping the pilot and himself from going full black, that would have interfered with the mission. Having a rival in the shape of the captain of Scout Ship 20 was good for all parties concerned.

“Gun Boss Yovlee Chanis, we are not an invasion wave, even with the entire scout fleet combined that would be 120 trolls.”

Relnoh activated the briefing board and waited a moment for eyes to adjust. He now stood in front of a map of the northernmost continent, their position marked with a blue triangle.

“No, we are going to correct a mistake. Somebody in the Signal Corps sent the written declaration too early, and the verbal is already on its way. We can’t be seen as unable to follow word with action, so as per Her Condescension’s orders we shall destroy several targets of military and cultural significance.

“We only have enough catalysts for ten blasts, and we will need to use at least half of that for maneuvering in the atmosphere. We are to spread terror by attacking the most impressive structures in the largest city in our region.” a red circle appeared on a coastal city at the mouth of two rivers. Several reconnaissance images were displayed showing a massive urban center on an island connected to the surrounding mainland by several spans, sprawling hives seemed to spill across the bridges and all over the surrounding country side.

“We don’t know much about that sector, our orders were to study resource deposits. I’d ask 14, but they’re out of range for Jineps and we can’t use radiation signals. So, I’ve decided we will attack the tallest communal hivestems, taking two blasts to do major structural damage to those clustered around the large rectangular lawnring, another to slice the single tallest in half vertically. Two more will sever all bridges, and another will be used on a target of opportunity. I am authorizing the use of a third of our impacalators for use on the city in general and any aircraft we encounter. This is my command.

“We will begin the preparations for the attack immediately. Everybody to their posts.”

Eleven heads bowed.

 

* * *

  


## H HOUR MINUS 5 DAYS, WESTERN SAHARA, SOMEWHERE ABOVE A SMALL VILLAGE

 

A butterfly flapped its wings.

 

 

* * *

  


> TROLLIAN AUTO-RECORDED ACTION REPORT 6 FROM SS12 AFTER ENTRY  
> [SHIPMASTER] skywardACQUIESCENCE [SA]: We're where?  
> [PILOT] distinctiveSCREECH [DS]: Off cOurse. Nice gOing.  
> SA: How'd that happen you fucking idiot?  
> DS: We faced a headWind from an Ocean stOrm When We de-Orbited. The head in questiOn Was the thick One you're spOrting right nOw. We hit the cOast but we can't get to the retarded target yOu specified. The Winds cOming off that are huge, nO Way this fucking tub can get us there and dO everything in the specified strike WindOW.  
> SA: It'd be good for you to remember that this fucking tub is one of the finest spacecraft our betters have ever produced, and if you forget that again for even a mo-  
> [GUN BOSS] completeVINDICATION [CV]: Shut up you's two! Do mine eyes deceive me's, or is there not a fucking huge city down there as well? Not the target, true, but at least we's not over a fine mess of hives? Let us's give them's a taste of Her Condescension's fury!  
> SA: We'll likely do that. I'd like a section report first.  
> [ENGINEERING]: All lights blue. If we dump a shot's worth of catalyst into the hovergland we can make it to the actual target easy.  
> [ASTRONAVIGATION]: Backing up Engineering.  
> [STEALTH]: All obfuscation techniques at maximum effectiveness.  
> [COMMUNICATIONS]: No new signals.  
> [RECON] No new pertinent data at thi-  
> [EXSTABOLATOR] aresnicCATNIP [AC]: :33 Wait! I almost furgot something!  
> DS: NOt this shit again, What, there a fluffbeast dOWn there?  
> AC: :33 No! A bunch of flammable gas!  
> CV: That has my attention.  
> SA: Okay, let's hear it Nepeta.  
> AC: There's a big ship down there by that bridge, it's got a cloud of methane floating around it, and I think there's more, much much much more hiding inside.  
> [LOOKLOUT] specifiedGREGARIOUSNESS [SG]: Damnit AC, I thought w3 said that wasn't important.  
> SA: Looklout Bakgat Kopors, it'd be best if you shut up. Continue, Exstabolator Nepeta Leijon.  
> AC: If we put a blast on it, we'll superheat the gas, and make a furroucious explosion! Impawsibly big!  
> DS: That's One less shOt at the main target.  
> CV: We's will make the best of it.  
> SA: Very well. make it so.

 

* * *

H HOUR MINUS 1 HOUR, BOSTON HARBOR

 

The SS MobilSolution was one example of the third largest class of Liquefied Natural Gas carriers on the planet. She had been lucky and reached Boston before a brewing hurricane or tropical storm, an increasingly common occurrence on the Atlantic, could catch up.

Her security detail, a flotilla of Coast Guard cutters and various police boats, was thrown about by the chop pressed on by the approaching storm.

Such security had only increased in the decades since the September Eleventh Attacks, and included closing a major commuter bridge as ships carrying the precious and dangerous cargo passed under. Once, there had been a floating terminal further from downtown to keep what was potentially the world’s largest non-nuclear bomb from passing too close to the city. Energy and safety were important, true. But not spending money in certain political climates was a virtue that trumped all others.

Scout Ship 12 sat above the frustrated commuters unobserved. Nearly invisible to the unaided eye and entirely invisible to many electronic aids, the only indication of the imminent strike was received by one of the few survivors. As the long legs of the maneuvering jets pulled double duty as heatsinks they turned white hot, blinding the thermal camera operator of the BPD helicopter doing search and rescue for a nearby town.

 

A thick rod of electric blue sprang into existence, connecting a point high above the harbor to one in the center of the MobilSolution’s deck. Those looking upon it saw it last for a long moment, a strange piece of geometry glowing in the daylight. Than the world ended.

 

The MobilSolution actually lost natural gas continuously during its trip. It also had no cooling systems apart from air conditioners in the crew quarters. Instead it relied on foam insulation with nooks and crannies packed with inert gasses. The crew of Scout Ship 12 didn’t know this, but the gunnery crew assumed that a cooling system would be easier to defeat through a slow buildup. “Like boiling a croakbeast alive,” Yovlee had put it. Slow is relative however, and the full burst came across five seconds. Building from the output of a particularly strong laser pointer, it peaked at a temperature found in cool spots on weak stars for a ten thousandth of a second.

This was far more devastating than a full blast might have been. The seconds where the gas was not ignited saw the ship heated and the most of the once liquid gas spread rapidly across the city and harbor. People across downtown stopped for a moment to smell the sudden, hot, unpleasant wind blowing in from the harbor.

Well before the maximum output, the gas ignited. The MobilSolution along with her escorts and a large volume of Boston Harbor were vaporized instantaneously, leaving nothing behind. The shockwave and the fire reached the city proper at about the same time, knocking over buildings the same instant they, and all their occupants, were exposed to a blast furnace.

The initial blast shook windows in the surrounding counties. The wildfire that came would consume a large portion of the city, with the East side protected only by the firebreak of Logan Airport’s parking lots and an almost instantaneous and entirely heroic response by airport crash teams to something entirely out of their jurisdiction and scope.

The combined death and serious injury count exceeded one million. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Xenopology is anthropology, but instead of studying "the man" (anthropo) it focuses on the same aspect of the "the alien" or "the foreign" (xeno).


	7. The Eagle and the Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, there actually isn't a chapter here. Sorry, but somebody stole my laptop, only to return it 20 hours later... with a formatted hard drive. This means that the original text document with all of Homefall (and several other things of less concern to you but major import to my academics) are lost. Data recovery will be attempted, but expect a long delay, likely until sometime in mid-December.
> 
> This is the title I'm going with, so you can speculate if you want.
> 
> If you want a hint at the cost of potential spoilers, know that the following pieces of equipment will be involved:
> 
> *F-15C Eagle  
> *AA-14 (AA-12 Mk III)  
> *A Dell projector  
> *Sidewinder Missiles  
> *AT&T Augmented Reality Glasses  
> *A sylladex  
> *A strife deck

[Forthcoming]

**Author's Note:**

> Get any of those little references sprinkled throughout? Tell me about it and I'll scratch something out for you.


End file.
